Breathe in the Air
by TheMacUnleashed
Summary: It's 2011 and the Angels are leaving. Castiel is left behind. Gen; two-shot; set in the 5.04!verse. Rated for drug use.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: It's 2011, and the Angels are leaving. Castiel is left behind.  
**Warnings: **Drug use, spoilers for events referenced in 5.04  
**Characters:** Castiel, Michael, Dean  
**Notes**: For my **hc_bingo **card from Livejournal: the prompt was "Fallen Angels."  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own SPN. The title is a reference to the very good Pink Floyd song of the same name.

* * *

Smoke curls up from the crudely-made joint and lingers in the frigid December night air for a few seconds before vanishing to some place unperceivable by the human eye. It leaves behind a light, herbal scent that Castiel knows will linger on long after he's breathed in the last curl of smoke or watched it dissipate into the night. He can rub the ashes in his fingers and crumble them down to something finer than dust, but that smell, dizzying and intoxicating and calming, will remain clinging to him and to the air, in places beyond his reach. It always does.

And if he can smell it, then Dean probably will be able to, too. He won't be very happy about it; would actually probably be furious if he found out that Castiel was smoking when he was supposed to be patrolling around the lake, but that's a risk he'll willingly accept. There isn't much Dean will do except shout and maybe threaten to turn him away from Camp Chitaqua, if he's in that sort of mood.

He'll never follow through on that, of course. Others have done worse things than getting high when they're on duty, and he's never turned them over to the Croats. Either Dean lacks the courage to punish justly, or he honestly doesn't care as much as he makes out to. Castiel has yet to be out of his head enough to ask him.

He breathes in and enjoys the gentle rush as it fills his senses. Dean doesn't understand: he _needs_ this; needs it to fill him in the places where his Grace once was, needs it to keep him from thinking about all that he lost or is losing, as what remains of the Heavenly essence he once carried in abundance fades away, like smoke or breath in the freezing air.

And he isn't foolish enough to be smoking it when he's somewhere important (this hardly counts: the Croats aren't intelligent enough to take a boat and cross the lake, and there are half a dozen other people patrolling through the forests that begin where the short, rocky stretch of shore ends. He's only here because Dean refuses to let him stay in and do as he pleases all day; insists that he needs to somehow contribute to the ongoing fight, despite his diminished abilities.)

Really, he barely ever complains about being given this fool's job, even though he knows that it symbolizes Dean's lack of trust in him. It's quiet here, and the night is clear. The stars sparkle endlessly above him in an almost hypnotic way, reflected in the lake as it extends out before him. It is a place that radiates peace at nighttime, and it's such a convincing illusion that he almost believes it.

And here, he can stretch his abilities without anyone seeing him. Here, he can find out the exact measures of his not-so-distant limitations.

A week ago, he could still heal a small scrape, inflicted upon his hand with one of the many sharp rocks lying on the shore. Now, he can't even do that.

It's been a year since Sam went to Detroit, since the virus went international, and since he's heard from his Siblings. Somehow, he doesn't think that the three things are unrelated.

The joint has almost burned out, ashes to ashes, and he digs around in his jeans' pockets and finds another. The coat he wore for so long was burned a few months ago -splattered with Croat blood- and he's yet to get another, so he's taken to carrying around the lighter and handmade cigarettes next to where his gun is tucked in his belt. It's cold, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't feel it so much when he's in this heightened state of mind. Physical being doesn't matter.

It reminds him of flying, to some degree, and is the closest replication of it that he's been able to find. Castiel doesn't regret the first time he tried it; choked on the smoke like a child taking his first breath. He's come too far for regrets.

There's a rustle behind him just as he's about to light the second joint of the night, and he jumps up, drops the lighter and spins around, hand going instantly to his gun.

"You have fallen far, brother," says the figure standing several meters in front of him, and before he can react the gun is yanked out of his hand by a force he can't see.

He identifies the figure, tries to deny it, and knows that it's true. "Michael."

"Castiel." Adam Winchester's voice is calm and emotionless, not the fury that he would expect to be unleashed upon him, a sinner and deserter.

"If you've come to kill me…" he trails off, not sure how to complete the statement. Does he welcome death? This life holds nothing, not now, but what appeal does nonexistence have? "Don't drag it out," he finishes, knowing how foolish he sounds.

"Kill you? No, Castiel. What good would that do? I wouldn't even have any satisfaction, not anymore." He looks at him, and even in the dark Castiel can see pity in his eyes and sense it with the last bit of Grace he has, and it makes him ashamed and furious.

"Then why are you here? To kill Dean? Or the Prophet, maybe." For all the good that that would do –he knows, and so Michael must as well, that the Prophet has seen nothing since the first thousand victims made themselves known.

"We don't need either of them. Their deaths would, perhaps, offer some of the Host satisfaction, but you know what would be waiting for them at the other end. Life is a much crueler punishment, isn't it?"

Castiel has no response for that, or at least none that he can think of in this state of mind: he's still coherent enough to know what's going on and to speak in what he's fairly sure isn't a slurred voice, but the world seems to be moving slower than it should be. It isn't enough, though: he doesn't want to know what's going on; doesn't want to want to know why Michael has come.

He does, though, because curiosity is an instinctive human desire, and really, he's not much more than a human now. "Then why?"

Michael is silent for a moment before he replies, "For the sake of finality."

"So you _are_ killing me."

"No. You turned on us. You left Heaven when we needed you most. For that, you don't deserve death."

"Then why are you here?" He's getting sick of asking his brother that, but even now he knows not to express his irritation out-loud; not if he doesn't want to repeat the punishment Raphael bestowed upon him.

"Because we are leaving, and you're too strong to not be dealt with."

The first part of his statement doesn't even register at first. "'Too strong?' You think_ I'm_ too strong? What am I to you?"

"You're a fallen Angel, whose Grace has not fully depleted." Michael's gaze is unwavering, as if he's trying to see how Castiel will react.

Only the last of his restraint is keeping him from stepping forward and driving his fist into Adam Winchester's face, and that's when he realizes the words that the Archangel previously said. "And leaving? Aren't you already gone?"

"We have been... watching," replies the Angel. "Observing, without interference. And we have concluded..."

"What?" Michael seems hesitant to speak, but he wants to know -has to know.

"That this is a lost cause. I have no vessel –you can tell, of course, Castiel, that this is simply an aspect." He waves his –Adam's?- hands over his body. "Something to disguise my true form for a few minutes, to remain... inconspicuous. It's not a vessel."

He hadn't been able to tell that, actually, even though it should have been obvious. He doesn't call attention to his lack of observational skills, though. "Then why don't you _get_ one? Dean… Dean would be willing." The words hurt to say and taste like bile in his mouth, but he knows that they are true: after everything he gave up –after everything _Dean_ gave up- he'd say "Yes" without having to think about it these days.

What's more, and what pains him the most to admit, is that it would be the best thing for all of them.

"It's too late."

"So you're just leaving. Heading to a different world, and giving Lucifer this one? You cowards."

He sees the anger flare upon Michael's face, even in the all-encompassing dark. "It is wisdom, not cowardice. This is no longer a war that will end with the desired prize, so why should we continue to fight it?"

"For the sake of the ones that have held out?"

Michael laughs with the same bitterness that Castiel feels every day that he wakes up, Graceless and hungover. "This was never about them. Do you really think that we'd waste our energy -our _lives- _now? There are better prospects out there."

"Then why haven't you left already?"

"Haven't we? Castiel, when was the last time you felt any sort of call from us? When was the last time that your resident Prophet had a vision? I am the last Angel on Earth who still serves Heaven. The rest have gone already."

"Where to?" This is the chosen world, the one upon which Paradise was to be brought –but of course, nothing ever seems to go according to the Plan.

"To greener fields," replies Michael, "And I will be going with them shortly. But first…" he steps forwards and Castiel tries to back away, but Michael is faster than him and grips his shoulder with one hand and presses the other to his chest.

Castiel cries out as a sensation like flame beneath his ribs fills his chest and then travels through his blood, burning him from the inside without leaving a stray mark. His head jerks back and only Michael's hand keeps him from falling to the rocky shore.

It lasts for less than a minute, he thinks, and the pain is gone as soon as Michael pulls his hand from his chest and places it on his other shoulder to steady him, but something else is different.

"I am sorry," his brother admits. "Even after everything that you've done, it pains me to have to remove your Grace, but I couldn't leave you here unsupervised, with access to Heaven, as minimal as it might have been."

"You didn't have to," gasps Castiel, and he grips Michael's arm and stares into his face, finds a trace of sympathy and tries to focus on it. "Please. If you took it, you can restore it…"

"I won't. You lost your right to consider yourself an Angel of the Lord long ago," says Michael in an almost chiding voice, "And you long ago made the choice to call Earth your home, and the Humans your people. You brought this upon yourself, my former brother."

"I take it back," he begs, feeling the void within him. Where fragile strands of Grace once clung to him, promising him that as long as he could feel them he would still be an Angel, there is nothing. This is emptiness too complete for drugs or physical pleasures to fill. This is the absence of something that was always, doubtlessly a part of him. It is an amputation of soul far more than it is of limb or appendage.

"It's too late for that," says Michael as he gently lowers him to the rocky shore, and then straightens. Castiel sees a gentle bluish glow begin to intensify around the edges of Michael's form, and he realizes that he needs to shield his eyes. For the first time, he cannot look upon his siblings as they truly are.

Michael disappears in a blaze of glory as Castiel cowers on the bed of stones, and as if his Grace were all that had been sustaining him, he finds that he cannot muster the will to get to his feet and continue on with the night, so he just stays in that position, alone and Human, as the night continues its slow transformation to morning.


	2. Chapter 2

_It's been two years, three months and one week since Dean has last seen Sam, but he's there again now, leaning against the oak that marked the start of the path that leads to Camp Chitaqua. Dean sees the familiar slump of his shoulders; the same jeans and shirt that he'd seen him in last. From this vantage point, it's as if nothing has changed._

_"Sammy." He stops where he is, not knowing how long he has been walking. "Been awhile."_

_"Yeah." His younger brother turns to face him, swift and predatory. "Long time no see, big bro."_

_His eyes flash black-_

"Dean." Someone is kneading his shoulder, and not in the slim-fingered, erotic massage way. "Deandeandean." The kneading turns to shaking. "Wake up."

"Wha'?" He rolls over onto his back and tiredly rubs his eyes. "I'm not due on any of the patrols until eleven…" And it can't be that late, can it? His nightmares never last that long; he always wakes up sometime just shy of six, when he isn't supposed to be on duty before then.

"The angels are gone." Chuck finally lets go of his shoulder and sis down at the foot of his cot, far too intimate a gesture for Dean.

"What are you talking about? The angels have been AWOL for months –hell, must be a year or more now, ever since after the virus began. You know that." Chuck should have known it better than anyone, except maybe Cas. Chuck had been the one to tell him that his pet archangel and all the rest had finally given up their dress-Dean-like-Mike campaign in the first place; let him know that they really were on their own for the Zombie Apocalypse.

"Yeah, but they were always… there." Chuck waves his hand around, indicating what Dean thinks is omnipresence. "Like they were the audience or backstage or something, and we were acting out the Apocalypse onstage."

"And now?" Dean sits up, pulling his legs away from where the prophet was sitting on them.

"They're gone. I saw-"

"You had another vision?" Dean interrupts sharply. Funny how those two words manage to wake him up quicker than his morning coffee ever had, although if they still had coffee, he supposes that it might qualify as a nighttime drink at this point. Given the darkness, he'll be damned if it's past four, and that's definitely not daytime to him.

"That's what I just said. I saw them leaving, and Raphael told me that it was over. 'It's over;' those were his exact words. And now… I don't know." Chuck shrugs, looking as helpless as most of the survivors these days feel. "It feels different."

"What feels different?" He can think of a thousand and one things that this could mean, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to be most worried about, or what to deal with first, or how he _can_ deal with any of the potential issues that this could bring.

"Me. The air. Everything." Chuck shrugs again. "I don't know how to describe it. I'm terrible with words, you know that."

"Yeah." Dean shrugs out of his boxers, not caring if Chuck is there because really? Now is a crappy time to start being worried about modesty. Not to mention that he's probably seen Dean naked before in his visions, and probably in more compromising positions then.

He gets dressed, and then he realizes that he doesn't know what to do.

"Fuck," he mutters, and then he repeats the oath again because, well, _fuck_. They really are alone now. Just him and the rest of survivors; they're the last hope of humanity, and that's a really, really sad thought.

Dean does his best to pull his thoughts together into something coherent and manageable. "Look, Chuck," he says, turning around and glancing at Chuck, who waited in silence while he got dressed. "Don't spread this around, okay? I think -I think that most people just figure they're already gone, anyway, and no one's going to get hurt if they think they're still there." He only feels guilty about letting everyone think they've still got a snowball's chance in Hell for a moment before the more cynical part of him ('coping mechanism' someone -Sammy, maybe- called it a long time ago) takes over and tells him that even if he told them it wouldn't make a difference. Hope's a special sort of drug, and humanity in general tends to be addicted to it. The only detox is reality, but hell, paying attention to _that_ isn't doing anyone any good.

The metaphor crept into his mind from some screwy little resource in the back of his head, and he can't help but think that he's going to be a friggin' poet by the time all this is over-

And then it hits him, what he should have realized immediately. Drugs. Addiction. Cas.

_Fuck._

"Chuck, have you seen Cas at all? Since the vision?"

"Castiel? No. No, I haven't." Chuck pauses, and Dean can tell that he understands the question that he can't bring himself to ask outright. "I don't think… I mean, Cas must still be here. He isn't a real –he fell. He shouldn't have had to leave with all of them."

"Right." He's right, of course, because Chuck knows how their holier-than-thou minds work better than he does. Right? He has to; he's the one who's had them hanging over his should since he was a kid. "He was on lake patrol, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, graveyard to sunrise shift." Chuck stands. "Do you want me to come with you?"

It's a good idea, actually –if Cas is hurt he might need an extra pair of hands, not to mention that a few Croats could have sneaked passed him, if they've learned to swim or sail a boat or something, and anyway, having Chuck next to him will be extra motivation to calm down and not fly into panic mode- but no, he doesn't want company. It might be selfish and stupid, but that doesn't matter: right now, he wants to be alone, and he will be.

"No. I can make it alone. Just stay here and keep an eye on things." He hurries to the door, grabbing his coat as he walks, almost missing Chuck's response of, "I always do."

The cold outside isn't a system-shocking change from what he felt when he was in his uninsulated cabin, but he still registers the drop in temperature. He seems to recall some dead poet or someone saying that April is the cruelest months (thanks, Sammy; nice to know that all that useless crap you learned and passed on is good for something these days) but December has to be pretty close in the running.

His walk to the beach is relatively short -half a mile, maybe a little more- and he knows the trail well. Still, after he's been out for five minutes, he really wishes that he had a flashlight. The sun is at least two hours away from rising, and he doesn't like being out in the dark without someone to watch his back. The thick woods block out whatever light the waning moon would have reflected, and it's only Dean's knowledge of the terrain that keeps him from losing his balance as he increases his pace from a walk to a steady jog.

So despite the poor visibility, it isn't long until the trees give way to the clearing and the rockier land that precedes the lake. At first glance, it's empty.

"Cas? You there?" He steps further out of the trees and scans the shores. "Hey? Hey!"

He can see a figure now, and as he hurries closer, he can tell for certain that it's Castiel sitting there on the rocks, unmoving. "You hurt?"

There's no response and he fears the worst (can angels -former ones, anyway- even get infected? He's never had the opportunity to test that idea, and he hopes that he never will) but even those fears aren't enough to stop him from going forward.

Finally, he hears a quiet, "No."

"That's a relief." He squints and manages to get a better idea of the sight before him. "Jesus. Aren't you cold out here?" Cas is just perched there on rocks dampened by a recent slushy downfall that was a mixture of rain and snow, not wearing a jacket or boots or anything that would signify that he realized how friggin' cold it gets during these December nights.

"No."

"Bullshit." He ignores Cas' monosyllabic speech; ignores how he sounds exactly like he did when Dean first met him: not stoic, but incapable of emotions at all. He hesitates, then figures that he would have already been attacked if something bad had happened and Castiel was no longer batting for their pathetic team, and he lowers himself to the ground so that he's lying on his back next to the angel. It's damp, yeah, but he's been in far worse conditions, and the few stars that he can see are beautiful. It's a sight worth the discomfort. "I've been out here for ten minutes and I'm freezing."

Castiel doesn't reply, and Dean presses on. "Have you been smoking?" He already knows the answer to that; the smoke clings to Castiel's clothes and skin and even the faint smell makes him feel slightly dizzy.

"Yes."

Fuck this, he thinks, because they aren't going anywhere by dancing around the issue, and he isn't going to spend all night sitting here saying things that aren't going to get responses. "Chuck had a vision. He said that the angels have left."

"I know."

"Yeah? How'd you find out? Some sort of angel-radar?" It's not funny; a really pathetic attempt at a joke, if it was an attempt at all.

"Michael."

"Michael was here?" He sits up. "You didn't think that was worth mentioning?"

"You haven't been here long." Cas still stares straight ahead, as if there's something fascinating out on the lake that demands his complete attention.

Dean bites his lip, knowing that if he yells Castiel will just ignore him the way he always does when he's high. "Cas. Tell me about Michael now. What did he want?"

"He didn't come for you. He's gone now." His voice hardens, like he's trying to hold his emotions back now.

"Then why was he here?"

"He was leaving. They all were. He said I was too strong, still, to be left behind."

"Did he hurt you?" Rage curls inside him at the thought. The fucker disappears only to come back and say he's moving on; don't miss him too much? He'd better hope he's far away, because if Dean ever catches up with him again he won't be singing hymns of praise. Hell, he won't _say_ anything; he'll just act, and what he does won't be pretty.

"No. There isn't any pain." Cas shifts next to him, drawing his knees up to his chest and folding his arms.

"I didn't ask that. What did he do?"

"He removed the remnants of my Grace, as much as he could." He seems to anticipate Dean's next question, or maybe he just wants to talk now. Maybe he doesn't have anything left to lose. "I can't feel them. I can't feel Heaven, and I can't leave my vessel. For all purposes, I am human."

"Fuck. Cas... are you okay?" The words are foolish and meaningless, and he knows how damned stupid they sound as they come off his lips, but what else is there for him to say?

Castiel finally turns to him, his face blank. "Do you think I'm okay?" he asks, the bitterness of his tone contrasting with the expression.

"No, not really." He starts to draw back and stops. "Look, if you want me to go, just say so." He shivers and thinks that, as crappy a friend as it would make him, he might just leave anyway if he can't get anywhere with this. Better to be sleeping warmly inside than to be freezing his ass off for a lost cause outside.

"Dean. My brothers have just left for another planet -another dimension, for all that I know. I'm trapped in the body of a dead man. I once burned with enough fire to kill anyone who saw me, and now I am incapable of setting a pile of dry brush on fire without fuel. Do you think that I want to be left alone?" Bitterness gives way to something eerily patient.

"Well, I'd want to. Gonna guess that you don't, though," he hastily adds as Cas' expression begins to darken. "I won't leave." He draws closer to the fallen angel, hesitantly. "But you must be freezing."

"I don't feel it."

Dean reaches out and carefully touches Castiel's hand. "Bullshit. You're cold enough for the _Titanic_ to crash into you." Forsaking his dignity he drapes an arm around Cas and pulls close to him. "Don't suppose you want to get back to the camp?"

"No," comes the muffled reply as Cas allows his head to fall and rest on Dean's shoulder, and for once Dean ignores the smell of weed and the damp stones beneath him, and they just stay like that until the sun comes up.


End file.
